Beijing Red

by Alex Ryan

  “Shall I bring you your usual cocktail, sir?” The maître d’ asked, bowing and smiling.

  “Please,” Polakov said.

  The maître d’ snapped his fingers, and a waiter who had been standing beside the bar handed Polakov a black, leather-bound dinner menu. Then both men disappeared. A moment later, the waiter returned and Polakov ordered the tonno tonnato appetizer and fassone veal crepinette without looking at the menu.

  Polakov surveyed the room while he waited for his cocktail. Still clean, he reassured himself. When the waiter returned with his drink, he made a show of pulling his supposedly vibrating phone from his coat pocket, looking at the screen, and then rolling his eyes as he answered.

  “Hello? Yes, thanks for calling. How is work progressing?” he said in German into the phone, which was actually powered off. It wouldn’t do for a real call to come in during this facade.

  Beside him, Prizrak made a similar show of dialing a number on his phone and then placing the phone to his ear. This was a modified version of an old-school Cold-War technique where two teams shared information by engaging in separate conversations at adjoining tables. Two distinct dialogues, carried out in different languages, but languages spoken with mutual fluency by the actors. The advent of the cell phone made the game so much easier.

  “You’re late,” Prizrak said in Russian from beside him.

  The Russian agent glanced around the room. He doubted anyone else in earshot spoke Russian or German.

  “I know, but it couldn’t be helped,” Polakov said, still feigning a conversation in German on his phone. Behind him, the Chinese man gave an irritated huff. “Relax, old friend. I had a team on me when I left the office. You know the game; these procedures are more for your protection than mine.”

  “You kept me waiting too long. I was just about to leave.”

  “I am getting heat about the test. Moscow is not pleased,” Polakov said, getting down to business. “We authorized a limited, small-scale test, but our sources tell us that you have infected dozens in Kizilsu. This is not what we agreed to.”

  “I know, but it couldn’t be helped,” Prizrak said, mimicking Polakov’s own excuse. “A robust field test was necessary.”

  “Necessary? Why?”

  “Laboratory testing provides proof of concept, but proof of concept means nothing in the real world. You have tasked me with developing a weapon that will change the nature of warfare, and that is what I have done. The Kizilsu test was the only way to demonstrate to Moscow that I have fulfilled my obligation.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The mortality rate was one hundred percent with zero cross-infection,” Prizrak interrupted. “Zero, Andrej!”

  “Control yourself,” Polakov snapped and resisted the urge to look behind him at the man whose voice was rising enough to draw attention.

  “The weapon is perfect,” Prizrak said, lowering his voice.

  “Perhaps,” the Russian agent conceded. “But you have made it more dangerous for all of us. The fucking Snow Leopards are in Kizilsu as we speak, investigating.”

  “They will find nothing, because there is nothing to find,” Prizrak said proudly.

  There was a mania in the man’s voice Polakov found disturbing. He needed to complete the technology transfer before he lost control of his asset. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because that is the beauty of the weapon. It leaves no trace. They are glorified policemen, not technologists. Once they run out of people to interrogate, they will lose interest. Besides, Kizilsu is the middle of nowhere, far from real China. And no one gives a shit about the Uyghurs.”

  Polakov hoped his asset was right about that. He supposed having the elite counterterror unit isolated thousands of miles from Beijing was better than having them here snooping around.

  “When will you be prepared for the technology transfer, Prizrak?”

  “When my new demands have been met,” the scientist said.

  “What new demands?” Polakov said, his stomach suddenly going sour.

  “I e-mailed them to your secure address ten minutes ago.” And with that, the man called Prizrak pocketed his phone, swallowed the final sip of his cocktail, and walked away without a backward glance.

  Polakov felt his face flush with rage. He wanted to chase the arrogant bastard down and strangle him, but he forced himself to remain seated. He made a show of continuing his “conversation” on his cell phone and surveyed the restaurant for eyes fixed in his direction. No one was looking. After a moment, he feigned a laugh, uttered an overtly good-natured good-bye, and set his phone on the table beside his plate.

  New demands? New demands!

  What else could it be? They had already offered him everything—a new identity, plastic surgery, twenty million dollars in a Swiss bank account, and a seaside villa in Mali Losinj. This was insanity, and Moscow would not tolerate it.

  He took a deep breath and contemplated his next move. Whatever Prizrak’s new demands, he would advise Moscow to acquiesce. Then, once the weapon was safely in Russia’s hands, he would personally make Prizrak disappear. As Stalin said, “Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.”

  He raised his soon-to-be-empty cocktail glass to the waiter, who smiled, nodded, and hustled over to the bar to prepare a refill.

  He would miss the Mio restaurant and the Beijing Four Seasons when this was over. He should be the one retiring in Mali Losinj, not Prizrak. The muscles in his shoulders and neck were tight and knotted. He did not need the stress of this life anymore. Perhaps he would get a massage when he finished his meal. He had much thinking to do, and he needed to purge himself of all this tension. He thought of the petite, pretty Asian masseuse he visited regularly and of her strong, capable hands.

  Forget the massage, perhaps he would go straight to his room and treat himself to something more. Tomorrow, he would deal with Prizrak.

  Chapter 12

  Beijing

  2003 hours local

  For her eighth birthday, Dazhong’s father gave her an ornate, wooden puzzle box. It was small, about the size of an apple, and intricately hand painted, with five sides depicting the five elements of the Chinese zodiac: earth, wood, metal, fire, and water. The sixth was painted with the universal binding forces of duality—yin and yang. She had never seen a puzzle box before, and so after a cursory examination, she thanked her father for the beautifully painted thing and added it to her modest collection of childhood treasures.

  One week later, her father asked her if she liked her birthday present, to which she replied with as much sincerity as she could muster, “Yes father, it is beautiful box. Thank you.” His laughter took her by surprise, and she felt her cheeks flash crimson with girlish anger and embarrassment over his callous dismissal of her gratitude.

  “Dazhong, my flower, the box is not meant to be your present; it is only a box,” he said, bending to kiss her forehead. “Your actual present is inside the box.”

  Dubious and excited, she ran and fetched the box. With her father looking on, she turned the box over and around, and around and over, in her hands looking for access. With each revolution, she heard something shift inside.

  “I can hear it moving,” she said, grinning at him.

  “Yes, but be careful. The treasure within is delicate.”

  “But how do I open this box?” she asked, scanning every surface for the umpteenth time. “There is no lid.”

  “It is a puzzle box,” he said, grinning. “To open it, you must solve the puzzle.” Then, suddenly turning serious, he added, “But be careful not to break the box, because if you do, you will destroy the gift inside.”

  “I do not understand, father,” she complained. “There are no hinges, no keyholes, no little doors to open. It is just a painted box.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he said. “To open this box requires twelve manipulations, one for each of the twelve animals of the zodiac calendar. The man who sold it to me taught me the secret, so I know it
can be opened.”

  “Are you sure?” she said, cocking her head skeptically.

  “Of course, how else do you think I was able to put your present inside?”

  She studied the box, and after a moment, fine lines in the wood revealed themselves to her, each seam skillfully camouflaged by painted streaks of artistry. With her thumbs, she pressed and swiped here and there until at last a section of the box shifted. She giggled with excitement at the tiny victory and looked up at her father for recognition.

  “Like so,” he said, nodding with approval.

  “Only eleven moves to go,” she said, proudly.

  “Not necessarily,” he tsked. “That may or may not be the first manipulation. If you perform the moves out of sequence, the box will not open.”

  A week later, he returned to her.

  “Have you retrieved your treasure yet?” he asked.

  “No,” she sulked. “It is impossible. I will never open this box.”

  “Perhaps I made a mistake,” he said, frowning. “I should not have given you this box until you were older. Eleven or twelve, I think. I am sorry, Dazhong. I did not mean to torment you.”

  “Then will you open the box for me?” she said, fighting back tears of desperate aggravation. “Please, father.”

  “I would gladly open it for you, except then I would ruin the magic,” he said. “And that will not do.”

  “The magic?” she asked, her curiosity recharging.

  “Yes, the magic. Whenever a puzzle box is given as a gift, it is magically bound to the recipient. If I open the box, then the magic will be ruined. This is your box now, and so only you must open it.”

  She thought about this and said, “Well, I don’t want the magic to be ruined, that’s for sure. Maybe you can give me a little hint, just to get me started.”

  “A hint?” he echoed playfully.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Hmm,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “I suppose I can tell you this—to open the box, you must understand the five elements of the zodiac and the binding force of the universe. If you study hard and come to truly understand the nature of these things, the box will reveal it’s secret to you.”

  Over the next month, she studied the elements—earth, wood, metal, fire, and water—asking her father endless questions about the nature of things. When she had learned all she could, she asked him about yin and yang and the duality of the world. During her quest for knowledge, she spent more one-on-one time with her father than ever before, and his enthusiasm, patience, and attention brought them closer together. Instead of resenting the puzzle box for its impenetrability, she came to love it for its elegant beauty and curious magic. Then one night, she had a dream about a great and terrible storm, in which the elements of the earth went to war with each other. As the war raged, she soon recognized that there could be no single victor, because when the fire burned the wood, water extinguished the blaze. And when the water flooded the earth, metal dug culverts to channel the water away, and so on and so on. For every move, a countermove. Yin and yang swirling in opposition, yet in harmony. And when she woke, she smiled, because she finally understood. She reached for the puzzle box and her fingers went to work. Press a block of water, and a block of fire shifts out on the other side. Slide a piece of earth to the left to shift a piece of metal to the right. Ying and yang. Action and reaction. The twelve manipulations came to her as easy as a breath, and the box was suddenly open in her hands.

  “Dr. Chen,” the voice said, shaking her from the memory. “Dr. Chen, we’ve arrived.”

  She turned, disoriented, to look at the driver holding the rear passenger door open for her. “Thank you,” she said, gaining her bearings. “If you wouldn’t mind grabbing my bags from the trunk.”

  “Yes, of course, Dr. Chen.” The man disappeared behind the hired car while she stepped out onto the curb.

  When he returned with her luggage, she said, “Thank you. How much do I owe you for the ride from the airport?”

  “The fare is already settled,” he said. “On your husband’s account. Have a pleasant evening, Dr. Chen.”

  “Thank you,” she said, turning toward the apartment lobby, and suddenly her legs turned to stone. Behind her, she heard the engine rev and the sound of tires on wet pavement as the car drove away, and still she could not bring herself to take a step. Inside, lurking on the thirteenth floor, her husband, Dr. Chen Qing, waited for her. They had not spoken the entire time she was in Kizilsu. She had called him from the airport in Kashi, hoping to gauge his mood, but her call went straight to voicemail. She’d left him a message with news of her imminent return and her travel itinerary. She assumed the driver who had met her at the airport had been provided by the CDC, certainly not her husband.

  She willed her right foot to move.

  And then her left.

  It will be okay, she told herself. Be brave and strong and everything will be okay.

  It was past eight o’clock, so hopefully he would already have several drinks in him. She liked him better when he was drunk. Sometimes, in inebriation she could steal moments with the old Qing—the man he was before they married. The man who made her laugh, dreamed about the future, and made love to her as a woman. Not the cold, cruel, calculating creature who paraded as her husband now.

  The grand marble lobby was empty.

  She rode the elevator up, alone.

  A moment later, she found herself standing outside apartment 13B.

  She steeled herself and then reached for the doorknob, but the door swung open before her fingertips touched brass. And then he was standing there, smiling.

  “Welcome home, Dr. Chen,” he said playfully, teleporting her back in time—back to the early days of their courtship, when she had just earned her PhD and he insisted on calling her Dr. Chen at every opportunity.

  “It’s good to be home, Dr. Chen,” she fired back, along with a tentative smile.

  He reached out and took her luggage from her. She followed him inside. The smell of her favorite meal—Hong Kong–style pan-fried noodles with crispy duck—enveloped her. She inhaled deeply and her stomach promptly growled.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he said. “I ordered in.”

  “I’m starving,” she said, shrugging off her travel coat.

  “Undoubtedly,” he said, taking her coat. “I hear the food in Kashgar is terrible. They say it tastes like dirt, no doubt from the Uyghurs working in the kitchen.”

  She lowered her eyebrows at him.

  “I’m joking, Dazhong,” he said. “Relax.”

  She walked over to their dining table and was surprised to see that two place settings had been thoughtfully arranged, and atop one of the plates was a small box tied with a bow. She could feel his eyes on her as she approached her seat. “For me?” she asked, picking up the box and turning to look at him.

  He nodded.

  She tugged at the ribbon, and the cardboard top flaps popped open. She peeked inside and smiled at the honey-rose-flavored pastry within. “From Daoxiangcun bakery?”

  “Your favorite—a xianhua meigui bing,” he said, evidently quite pleased with himself.

  Why is he being so nice?

  The thought was so loud in her mind, her heart skipped a beat, worried she might have slipped and actually spoken the words aloud.

  “You don’t look pleased,” he said, his brow furrowing.

  She smiled. “No, I am pleased, just . . . confused.”

  “Confused about what?”

  Flustered, she fumbled for words. “I seem to remember a recent conversation when you told me I should stop eating pastries because too much sugar is not good for my health.”

  “Yes, but you are too thin, Dazhong. When you work hard, you forget to eat, and you have been working too hard,” he said, looking her up and down. “Maintaining the optimal amount of body fat is critical for fertility.”

  Uncertain how to respond, she smiled politely and simply said, “Thank you for the pastr
y. It was very thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Let’s have dinner.”

  She carried both their plates to the kitchen while he took a seat at the table. She served a generous portion of noodles and duck onto his plate first and then served herself a lesser portion. She returned to the table and placed his food in front of him before taking her seat on the opposite side of the glass table.

  “At least this time you can self-monitor in quarantine at home,” he mumbled through a mouthful of noodles. “Last time was dreadful, you staying in Liberia twenty-one extra days.”

  “I am not under quarantine.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “But it was an Ebola outbreak, was it not?”

  “No,” she said. “The official position of the CDC is that the deaths in Kizilsu can be attributed to an industrial accident resulting in a toxic chemical release.”

  “What?” he said, setting down his chopsticks. “I heard rumors of patients with symptoms consistent with hemorrhagic fever.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “There have been many rumors swirling around the past few days. Some people say it was a terrorist attack. Other reports describe victims with Ebola symptoms. Since the CDC sent you, I assumed it must have been the latter. After all, you are the CDC’s department head in disease control and emergency response for Ebola.”

  “As of tomorrow, I start my new job, and I will be washing my hands of all this. If someone has a question about it, I will direct them to the CDC press secretary.”

  “You don’t sound pleased by the outcome.”

  “I support the official position of the CDC,” she said, staring at her plate.

  Qing thumped his knuckles on the table hard enough to give her a start. “What really happened out there, Dazhong?”

  “I’ve said too much already,” she said, meeting his gaze.

  “Nonsense. You’ve given me the party line, the same party line that is going to be spoon fed to the media cows when they finally wake up.”